


Don't Try to Stop, Baby, Hold Me Tight

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bottom Derek, Felching, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Derek, Rimming, Underage Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It really, really doesn't go like this in porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Try to Stop, Baby, Hold Me Tight

"Look, I'm not—" Stiles leans forward, mashing his phone between cheek and shoulder while he starts lacing up his shoes. Is there even any point to shoes? He's just going to take them off again. For days. "Are you sure?"

Derek sighs, a sigh so predictable and put-upon that Stiles is briefly reassured. He sounds like someone who's totally in command of mind and body, not someone who just tersely asked Stiles for the D. "If you want, I can ask Scott."

"Whoa," Stiles says. "Just take your pants off. I'll be there in ten."

*~~~~~~*

Derek's loft smells like omega pheromones and pizza rolls. "I hope you saved some of those for me!" Stiles shouts, locking the door to the loft behind him. He should probably have eaten before he came over, but he always feels weird jerking off with a full stomach, so maybe not. He doesn't have a lot of experience with this stuff. The heat-sharing, not the pizza rolls.

"There's more in the freezer," Derek says. He's on the bed, which is smack in the middle of the huge room like it's a piece on a porn set, and he's not wearing any pants. Stiles can just make out the elastic band of Derek's briefs on the curve of his hip. This is good, this is like an onion that Stiles is going to peel in stages, a sex onion. "I got hungry."

Stiles frowns. "Do you get grocery delivery here? Do you at least get Chinese delivery? Are we going to starve to death because I'm a bad provider?"

"I didn't ask for you to _provide_ for me," Derek says.

"Uh," Stiles says. "You kind of did."

Derek rolls his eyes and then flops onto his stomach, and, crap, Stiles can _smell_ him. People always say that omega slick smells like food—omega girls smell like peaches and cream, omega guys smell like vanilla and honey—but Stiles has ripped the foil off many a container of Yoplait and he knows a lie when he noses it. If Derek smells like yogurt, it's the tart stuff that's the mainstay of the fancy froyo place downtown. Stiles wants to grab a spoon and dig in.

Instead, he unzips his pants and shoves them down. Which is a terrible idea, because his shoes are still on and—

"If I wanted Scott, I'd have called Scott," Derek says, glancing over. "I want you."

*~~~~~~*

Stiles has knotted before, of course. His hand, a few creatively DIYed sex toys (okay, a sock in a leftover cardboard TP tube), an omega Fleshlight that he spent all his Christmas money on last year. With enough lube, closed eyes, and just the right porn for a soundtrack, Stiles can almost forget he's knotting heavily-lubricated silicone instead of another person, at least until he has to pull out and sneak down the hall and into the bathroom to unscrew the ballooned sac of spunk at the end and wash everything out. The point being, Stiles knows exactly how much jizz he can produce, and he's going to unload it into Derek's ass and it'll _stay_ there. Well, he won't have to wash Derek out afterward, anyway.

He finally manages to kick his shoes and pants off and stumbles back toward the bed, back _onto_ the bed, onto Derek, who grunts but stays put. Even without the Alpha werewolf bulk, Derek's very solid. Stiles has a hard time remembering to be gentle with him. Judging from Derek's rap sheet, he's probably not looking for an alpha who can deliver tender, candle-lit slow bone, but he also seems to go for girls, so what does Stiles know. He yanks his shirt over his head and he says, "How do you want this to go? You said—"

 _My wolf doesn't tolerate suppressants well_ , is what Derek said. Presumably he means his recent, literal wolf, because Stiles has never smelled Derek in heat before. _I need—assistance._ Stiles was confused for a moment, because Derek said it like his Toyota needed a jump, or maybe like he needed to borrow the belt sander in the garage that Dad claims Stiles doesn't need to know how to use. Now Derek says, in that same even tone, "I need your knot."

It really, really doesn't go like this in porn.

"Where?" Stiles says, because he's a smartass. Then Derek puts his arm around Stiles's waist and flips him so that Stiles is draped across Derek like a throw blanket, his thigh hooked over one of Derek's, pressing against Derek's ass. One of Stiles's arms is over Derek's back, and the other is pinned beneath himself where it's going to go numb in approximately two minutes. Their faces are uncomfortably close together. Well, not closer together than other parts of them are going to be. "This is weird."

Derek sighs and shifts his hips. "If you want to go, you can go. I just—I tried, on my own, last month. It was—"

"Okay, okay," Stiles says hastily. "I don't want you to hurt yourself." Tentatively, he pats Derek's back. Then he rests his face against Derek's shoulder, where Derek smells nice. Really nice. Dudely and musky, rich, absolutely nothing like yogurt. He rubs his cheek against Derek's shoulder and snuggles in a little. The part where he feels like he wants to take a nap in Derek's body is a little weird, but hey, he can do that. It'll be way better than all those times he fell asleep and woke up with cold jizz leaking out of the tube sock and burst cardboard on his flaccid dick. He strokes Derek's back a little less tentatively, then down his spine, down beneath the waistband of Derek's briefs to where he's hot and—fuck. Derek arches his back up, tilts his hips into the air, and Stiles drags his underwear down and off Derek's ass so he can work two fingers inside Derek, who is wet and open, ready for Stiles to go to town.

"Do it." Derek's voice comes out all thin and _broken_. "I need you to."

Stiles hesitates, his fingers still hooked in Derek's ass. "You're not worried about, um—" Derek's a werewolf, so there's no risk of disease transmission, and he's a dude, so there's a pretty low chance of him getting knocked up even off suppressants. But he could. Stiles could be a teen dad. He could be living _17 and Babydaddy_ , which is not yet a reality show but _it could be_. They could also be dead, like, next week. "Stuff."

Derek closes his eyes and says, "I don't care. I want it. I want it all."

"If I knock you up, I reserve the right to name our child after zero dead people," Stiles says. Then he closes the distance between their faces and sort of puts his lips next to Derek's. It's not a kiss—Stiles is #yolo about unprotected heat sex but apparently too chicken to initiate heat makeouts—until it is, when Derek turns his head presses his mouth against Stiles's, and opens up sweetly, easy and practiced. For a moment, Stiles forgets about how deeply weird this is and just… gets into it. He's hard against Derek's thigh, sliding against him while he fucks into Derek's ass with his fingers. Stiles _wants_. Even if it's just once, he wants all of Derek, who trusts Stiles enough to call him when he's vulnerable and helpless. Stiles can provide with his dick.

*~~~~~~*

Figuring out the right position is difficult. There are a lot of limbs involved, and the longer they're tangled together, the less coherent they're getting. Stiles feels drunk, his legs wobbly when he tries to get up to mount Derek from behind. Yeah, that's not happening. They end up spooning, Derek's back to Stiles's chest, while Stiles fumbles his dick into place. Derek pants, sweats; he's hot, now, like he's running a fever. He's hot inside, too, when Stiles pushes in, so hot and tight and slippery-wet. Stiles brings his hand up to taste it, Derek's slick, and it's salty and sour. Everything is slow like this, the way it gets when you're out in 100F heat trying to mow the lawn and not die. Heat. "You taste good." Stiles rubs his cheek against Derek's neck. "Later, I wanna—put my mouth on you."

Derek growls and rolls his hips, takes Stiles in deeper. Like Stiles isn't already in over his head. He pinches one of Derek's nipples and twists, teases at the nub for a minute before he moves onto the other. Derek tilts back his head and lets out an low whine. Human and wolf, they're both animals operating on instinct, the innate drive to bond and breed that sets alpha and omega apart from their beta kin.

"Do you want it?" Stiles says, splaying his hand over Derek's flat stomach. Derek's jerking himself off now, long strokes drawing the head of his dick out of the soft nest of foreskin, and Stiles's hand brushes against Derek's on the upstroke. "Do you want me to fill you up? Keep you full until you—"

"Always wanted," Derek says. "But you're just a—a—"

Stiles says, "Shut up," and bites Derek's shoulder. He thrusts into Derek, short and jerky, losing rhythm as his knot starts to swell. This isn't anything like his toys, the familiar pressure of his fist. Derek clamps down on him, locks him in, and milks his orgasm out of him. It seems to go on forever, intense and wrenching—Stiles doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he starts gasping for air. He wraps his arm around Derek and holds him tight, holds onto him like an anchor.

*~~~~~~*

When Stiles wakes up, Derek is filling out the online delivery form for the local pizza chain on his phone, some weird Meat Lovers and Veggie Paradise combo. "No mushrooms on my half," Stiles mumbles. "Extra cheese."

"I know," Derek says patiently.

Stiles's knot hasn't gone down much. He does an experimental wriggle; no, he's definitely stuck. He yawns and settles back against the pillow. "This is weird." Derek stiffens. "No, no, just—aren't I supposed to be, like, feeding you? I didn't even buy Gatorade or anything."

After few silent, tense seconds, Derek relaxes a little. "I didn't ask you to. I don't expect you to know what to do."

"Yeah, if you wanted an alpha who isn't a virgin with no clue, you would definitely have picked Scott," Stiles says to Derek's back. Wait, he's not a virgin anymore. This substantially decreases the odds of ritual sacrifice, awesome.

Derek says, "That's not why I asked you."

Belatedly, Stiles remembers the thing where Derek's entire sexual history is people dying and/or betraying him and/or murdering lots of people, plus one hot bounty hunter who left him for Moby Desert Wolf. The first alpha he did the do with was—well. "You're not _taking advantage_ of me, dude," Stiles says hastily. Derek hunches in, but he can't exactly get away from discussions about feelings when Stiles is trapped in his butt. Neither can Stiles, but it's not like he really has feelings aside from _ARE YOU OKAY_ and moderate concern that they'll have to do some uncomfortable, conjoined shuffle under a blanket to get the pizza from the delivery guy.

"How would you know?" Derek says. "You can't—it's different, when you're young."

Stiles huffs. Instead of offering a rebuttal, he does another shimmy and his dick finally slips free, dribbling on the sheets. "Lie down," he says, pushing Derek onto his belly. "I wanna try a thing."

Kneeling between Derek's legs, he can see that this is going to be more complicated than he thought. He tugs at Derek's hips until Derek cants them in the air, nudges apart Derek's legs until he can see Derek's hole, glistening, red, dripping. Stiles leans forward and for a moment, he thinks it's going to be gross, that he's not going to be able to go through with it, but then he licks through the mess they've made and Derek lets out a startled whimper. Stiles flattens his tongue, licks across Derek's red pucker. It's like kissing, but not quite. Together, their come and slick are sour-sweet on Stiles's tongue, some strange, new flavor, viscous and heady. He eats Derek out until Derek comes again, rutting against nothing, shoving back against Stiles's mouth.

*~~~~~~*

Turns out, providing can mean a lot of things. Stiles can barely open a can of SpaghettiOs, but he can get Derek to come on his hand, his knot, in his mouth. He fucks Derek until his hole is used and swollen, and past that when Derek begs him. Stiles is a teenager fueled by the stamina of alpha rut—he can keep pace with a werewolf, but barely. Scott keeps texting him; there's only so long he can maintain the cover of "emergency camping trip" before Stiles's dad insists Scott produce Stiles or a body. By the end of the third day, when Derek's heat brakes, Stiles is the one who desperately needs electrolytes so he doesn't melt into a tragic puddle.

"I can get you something if you need," Derek says, even as he's lying in a mess of soaked sheets, the fitted one half-off the mattress. He looks like he's dying, and wow, Stiles really wishes he didn't have a basis of comparison.

Stiles closes his eyes and cuddles close. He has zero time for pretending to be cool and aloof or whatever a heat buddy is supposed to do after the sex frenzy has passed. "Next time, we'll stock up. On all the—things."

"Next time," Derek says, cautiously.

Stiles says, "If you want."


End file.
